


Capitol Chefs

by EllanaSan



Series: 52 stories in 52 weeks Challenge [12]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Cooking Competition, F/M, HUnger Games Meets cooking show, Pre-Canon, aka the one where Haymitch can cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 07:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllanaSan/pseuds/EllanaSan
Summary: “You know…” He chuckled. “I hope you ain’t missing the irony, here. They toss us in the Hunger Games and now they bring us back to the city to compete in some food contest.”





	Capitol Chefs

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the 52 stories in 52 weeks challenge by ourwritingtherapy on tumblr. Week 12 : a story about a contest or a competition

There was something pleasantly numbing to chopping wood. The sound of the axe rushing down, the satisfying noise of the log splitting in two, the burning muscles in the back and the arms, the cool wind blowing over sweaty skin…

“You are sober.”

Haymitch had been entirely focused on his pile of wood and his head darted up in alarm, not having expected any visitor. The axe missed the target and embedded itself in the log the wrong way. He left it there, wiping his palms on his pants, frowning at the woman in pink fur. Well… the coat was furry and puffy but it hung open on a cream dress made of delicate lace that gathered at her right hip and only covered one shoulder from what he could see. He glanced down, not surprised to see her perched on seven inches light pink heels with a huge flower on each ankle. Really not weather appropriate. She was lucky winter was still creeping in or she would have frozen where she stood.

Then again, there he was, bare-chested and sweaty in the front yard, risking pneumonia to make sure he wouldn’t die of exposure the next winter… Neither of them were very sensible people.

It didn’t explain what Effie Trinket was doing right there though.

“Tell me the truth. Do you only get drunk around me _simply_ to annoy me?” she sighed theatrically when he didn’t acknowledge her presence. One of her hands came to rest on her hip and _fuck_ but the irritated pout did _things_ to him. It couldn’t have been more than three months since they had last seen each other… He hadn’t _missed_ her per say but… he had certainly missed the sex. Effie wasn’t done talking though – when was she ever? “Are you otherwise sober the rest of the year?”

“Word on the street says it’s better to be sober when you’re handling an axe.” he finally retorted, rolling his eyes at her antics. “Though, annoying you’s always a nice plus.”

He reached for the shirt he had tossed on the ground earlier but she lifted a hand. “No, no… Stay like this. It is _quite_ a nice view. Far better than anything I could have thought of… It will be a lovely shot when the cameras arrive.”

“Cameras?” he frowned, looking behind her to find her alone. “What brings you to my neck of the woods anyway, sweetheart? Interviews?”

It wasn’t unheard of and it had happened before. An escort showing up with a TV crew for some filler program. She wouldn’t have been there without a good reason. It wasn’t like people could leave from the Capitol to visit the worst District in Panem _without_ a good reason.

He grabbed the axe back and used his foot to free it from the log. He stumbled back a little but refused to address the amused smile on her lips. The amused smile turned into a wistful sigh as soon as he brought the axe down again anyway.

He wasn’t even surprised this was turning her on. She probably had lumberjack fantasies trapped in that devious mind of hers. There were a lot of fantasies in her devious mind.

“I am afraid not. I came to fetch you.” she explained. “As you would _already_ know if you answered your phone.”

“Phone’s not working.” he shrugged, placing another log on the block.

“What is wrong with it, then?” she asked. “Perhaps I can have someone look into it while we are gone…”

“It’s been torn off the wall.” he smirked. “It kept ringing.” She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips and titled her head to the side in a disapproving attitude that made it very hard not to toss the axe and push her against the outer wall of his house. Three months. He usually lasted a whole year with only his hand for company but now she was there and within reach and when she looked at him like _that…_ “Don’t I get a proper hello before I ask why I’m supposed to go back to the city and throw a tantrum?”

“I am glad to hear you acknowledging how childish your behavior can be.” she replied. “And perhaps when you are not so sweaty, you will get a kiss. It makes for a nice view but it would ruin my outfit and we _are_ to be on camera in…” She checked her delicate golden watch. “Fifteen minutes. I came early to make sure you would be ready. Please, do not let me keep you. _Do_ chop away.”

 “Like the chopping, don’t you?” he taunted. He split another log in two, amused to see her switch her weight to the left and then back to the right. “So? What’s this all about? ‘Cause I’m telling you right now, sweetheart, I don’t fancy another trip to the Capitol so soon.”

“You are Twelve’s only victor, you are not given a choice in the matter.” she retorted. “You _will_ have to compete.”

“Compete?” he repeated, suddenly far less amused. He slammed the axe on the empty block and started gathering the cut logs. “The _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Oh, it the _most_ amazing thing!” Effie exclaimed, clapping her hands in excitement. He couldn’t tell if she was faking or if she was genuine. “They decided to have a special edition of _Capitol Chefs_ with victors! It will be _a hit_ , let me tell you. It is _the_ latest reality show _en vogue_ and it is always far more popular when they have famous guests starring in it. They made several offers to me but I preferred to star in one of their fashion shows. Anyway, the producer, Plutarch Heavensbee? You may have met him, he is a Gamemaker when he is not focusing on TV programs, he was the one who had the idea. _Capitol Chefs_ but with victors…”

She had followed him around, apparently not minding the fact he was staring at her like she had grown a second head. She talked and talked but actually told him _nothing_. He had made two trips to the living-room with arms full of logs and he still didn’t know what it was about.

“Trinket, I ain’t going to the Capitol to compete in whatever game you’re all obsessed with.” he spat. “Been there, done that. Didn’t end that well for me.”

She had the decency to look subdued. “Oh, but it is not the same thing _at all_ , Haymitch… And anyway… As I said, you do _not_ have a choice. Other Districts already chose their contestant, they are filming it as we speak. A _send off_ , if you will. You are the only one who can represent Twelve.”

He rolled his eyes. “What’s this game about? _Capitol_ _Chefs_? What’s that?”

If Capitols usually starred in it and if they had offered _Effie Trinket_ a part, it couldn’t be _that_ deadly. Unless it involved stilettos and sales, of course.

“A cooking show.” she clarified.

_Then again_ …

Now he understood why she didn’t want a part. He highly doubted she could do so much as boil water by herself. One time in the penthouse he had fixed her some tea and pancakes in the kitchen because it had been the middle of the night and they had been hungry and she had looked at him like he was a god just because he had managed to make the stove work without burning the whole Center to the ground.

“A cooking show?” he scoffed.

They were back outside at that point. There were still logs to chop if he wanted to have enough stock for winter but it was chilly and he wasn’t in the mood anymore so he picked up his shirt and put it on, ignoring her disappointed pout. _And_ her lingering gaze.

“Yes, a cooking show. Capitol _Chefs._ ” She waved a dismissive hand. “Look, it won’t be that taxing. We will shoot a few interviews this week for the candidates introduction episode. Then it is five live events every Saturday night to the finale. What are the chances of you lasting more than the first night?”

“ _Hey_. I’m not the one who’s surviving on take-out.” he pointed out, a little offended.

She ignored it.

“You will have to stay until the finale airs, of course.” she continued. “But will it really be _that_ bad? I mean… It is _so_ cold here already. A month in the city _cannot_ be a bad thing. _And_ I have it on good authority that Chaff is representing Eleven.”

“Chaff?” he frowned. “Not Seeder?”

“Why? Because she is a woman?” she deadpanned, lips pursed. “I advise you not to let Chef Archer hear you say that sort of things. _Capitol Chefs_ is only one of his _many_ shows and he is _terrifying_.”

He shook his head. “Who’s _that_ now?”

“The judge.” she sighed, sounding infuriated by his lack of knowledge. “A _famous_ chef. We ate in one of his restaurants once. _The Plazza?_ You loved their spinach lasagnas.”

“Oh, that one…” He nodded. The food had been good. The sponsor meeting they had been at not so much.

“Here they are!” Effie beamed when she spotted the camera crew hesitantly making its way toward his house. “Quick! Shed that shirt and go back to working on those logs!”

“How about no?” he scowled.

She looked him up and down once and then batted her eyelashes twice. “This is television, Haymitch, and if you do tolerably well in this show, we might attract sponsors next year. Now, be sensible and get naked.” He lifted an eyebrow and she blushed. “You know what I mean.”

He suspected she wanted those images simply to be able to watch them at her own convenience later on.

He rolled his eyes but did as instructed, too used by now to be manipulated like a puppet when it came to tv shows. They shot several versions, mainly because Effie was supposed to tell him about the competition and he was supposed to act surprised and enthusiastic. He managed surprised but summoning enthusiasm was asking for a little too much.

Finally, after a whole hour of him freezing his ass off without his shirt on and one of the cameramen suggesting they should pour some water on him to make him look more sweaty, he was granted twenty minutes to pack.

He knew clothes weren’t a problem so he didn’t even bother taking suits with him. He just grabbed a few pajamas and some books, trusting Effie would have a whole wardrobe waiting for him on the train.

It wasn’t long enough for a shower though but he didn’t regret that either when he stepped out his train compartment’s bathroom two hours later to find his escort lounging on his bed in sparkling pink lingerie.

“I _do_ hope you brought the axe.” she teased.

“Sorry.” he snorted, tossing the damp towel on the floor and making his way to the bed. “You’re gonna have to rely on memory.”

“A pity.” she sighed but it turned into a shriek when he covered her body with his.

“You know…” he chuckled afterwards, once they were done and he was watching her getting dressed again. That was a view he never minded even if he liked her better naked. “I hope you ain’t missing the irony, here. They toss us in the Hunger Games and now they bring us back to the city to compete in some food contest.”

She tossed him a look over her shoulder, batting her fake eyelashes with far too much energy for it to be genuine. “Why, Haymitch. I have no idea what you mean.”

“Sure, you don’t.” he snorted.

She had promised it wouldn’t be too bad and, truth be told, it _wasn’t_ that bad. The week spent recording interviews and short pieces about how _excited_ he was to be granted the opportunity to compete was entwined with late nights drinking with Chaff and some of the other victors who had volunteered – or _had been_ volunteered by their fellow mentors in some cases – as well as a few tumbles between the sheets with Effie.

There were, admittedly, worse ways to start winter.

The _presentation_ episode was long and boring and Haymitch had to lie through his teeth about how passionate he was about gastronomic food but, all in all, there would be no arena the next morning so he was more or less okay with it.

None of the victors were really taking this seriously and, as far as he knew, nobody used the following week leading to the first ‘real’ cooking episode to train as Chef Archer had advised on the introduction show. They were all treating this as the joke it was.

“What do they even expect _you_ to do?” Haymitch mocked his best friend, late one night, over a bottle of whiskey. “You’re missing a _fucking_ hand.”

“Still a better cook than you, buddy.” Chaff retorted, chortling in his glass.

“You wish.” he challenged. “Ain’t _that_ bad.”

“Not what Trinket is saying everywhere.” Eleven’s victor shrugged. “Word on the street is she’s got money on the kid.”

“Of course, she does.” He rolled his eyes. That was _just_ like Effie. Go and bet on Finnick Odair. When had Finnick _ever_ had to cook for himself? He had Mags and Mags could do a mean chocolate soufflé – which, in his book, meant she could do pretty much anything. At best, Haymitch was sure all the kid could do was gut a fish. “Doesn’t change that you’re missing a hand and I really don’t get why you’d volunteer for a _cooking_ competition.”

“I like to cook.” Chaff shrugged. “And I’m _so_ gonna last longer than you, Haymitch. Missing hand or not. What do _you_ even know about cooking?”

“More than you.” he mumbled, gulping down the rest of the whiskey. “Care to make it interesting? One of those expensive bottles of bourbon.”

“Get your money ready, then.” his friend smirked.

If that bet hadn’t been enough to motivate him, Effie’s recurrent teasing and the other victors’ dismissive attitude were too irritating to ignore. Not that he had _ever_ cared much what people thought of him but… Still. It was irritating. He was a grown man who had lived alone since he had been sixteen and he hadn’t yet died of starvation. So, _sure_ , he often ate at the Hob but it wasn’t exactly because he liked Greasy Sae’s soup – not that the woman wasn’t a good cook but, more often than not, the soup was made of _rats_ and that wasn’t tasty. It was more because it was a good discreet way to spend his money and help out without hurting anyone’s sensibilities and, most of all, because he was lazy. But he could _definitely_ cook for himself.

It was in that frame of mind that he showed up to the first episode that Saturday night. He was determined to win.

The rules were simple enough. They had three hours and the first challenge consisted in cooking something from their respective District. They had access to fridges full to the brim with every sort of product they could think of – at least according to Chef Archer, Haymitch _almost_ asked him if they had rat meet in there somewhere so he could make it more _Twelve_ – but they came in a limited amount so they would have to be quick to grab them.

The twelve of them stood in line while the Chef made a show of starting the timer. Cashmere and Finnick were snickering like idiots, elbowing each other. They were the more obvious but no one else was taking it any more seriously. Haymitch caught Chaff’s eyes and rolled his eyes when his friend wiggled his eyebrows.

“ _Go_!” Chef Archer shouted.

Haymitch wasn’t sure why he started running. Probably because the kids had shot ahead, laughing themselves silly, and everyone had followed in an ingrained reflex born in different arenas.

“Can’t wait to drink that bottle you’re gonna own me!” Chaff taunted as he raced ahead and rushed to the fruits section.

Haymitch ignored him and went straight for the vegetable racks, pushing the young victor from Three out of his way. He grabbed what he needed, struggled with Cashmere over a dead rabbit but had to surrender his prize when she kicked him in the knee.

“ _Fucking_ careers.” he grumbled under his breath, snatching a dead partridge instead.

The amount of food that would be wasted for this show sickened him but that was the Capitol for you, he figured.

Each victor had a personal work station and he ran back to his, dropping everything on the counter and glancing around to see what the others were doing. The chef was now making the rounds, speaking to the cameras when he wasn’t questioning the contestants. Twelve’s station was at the very end of the room and Haymitch stopped spying on Chaff – who was clearly going for some sort of dessert – to focus on his own stuff.

He went for a stew.

It was easy, tasty and the only dish he could think of that people in Twelve ate regularly. Besides, it was something he could do with his eyes closed because if he made enough of it, he had leftovers for days and that suited his lazy side.

Once the initial rush for the ingredients was over, Haymitch vaguely wondered what the audience could find so interesting about the show. It must have been boring to watch them cook even with Archer regularly stopping by and asking stupid questions.

He figured the man had a stern scary persona going on for himself but Haymitch had troubles taking him seriously. He wasn’t exactly intimidated by the harsh remarks or the bulky stature. When it was his turn to describe what he was doing for the cameras and to talk about how _stew_ was so _typical_ of Twelve, he did it with enough sarcasm that he was pretty sure he would have to sit through an hour long lecture from his escort at the end of the night.

Of course, the gibes the victors good-naturally tossed each other must have been funny too.

Haymitch lost count of the number of times one of his so-called friends joked about him putting too much alcohol in the dish. At long last and because he had nothing else to do but wait for the stew to cook, he went back to the fridge and found a bottle of wine that he opened and steadily drank. It was good wine.

The stew too turned out good.

 It looked a bit pitiful in a simple bowl under the big Twelve sign on the long table with all the other dishes. Chaff’s fruit cake didn’t look half-bad, Finnick’s fish looked a little raw, the sauce on Cashmere’s beef smelled enticing and Blight’s dish – whatever it was – had so much cheese it _stank_. Everything else looked… Well, it looked like food.

Archer tasted everything thoroughly and made cutting comments that probably usually reduced Capitols to tears. Victors were made of stronger stuff though and Haymitch couldn’t help but snicker along with everyone else when the chef clearly grew frustrated with their lack of reaction and was particularly mean to Ellis who simply burst out laughing at his remark. Granted, Ellis was visibly high, like victors from Six always tended to be, and the dish she had submitted looked a bit weird.

It wasn’t exactly a great surprise when Archer declared Six, Three and Nine were out of the competition.

Haymitch was exhausted when he came back to the penthouse and he only aspired to a glass and his bed but it was without counting on Effie who looked ready to go out to some party despite the late hour – although he figured it wasn’t _that_ late by Capitol standards.

“Did you _have_ to be so rude to Chief Archer?” she wondered, passing him in the corridor on her way to the elevator.

She didn’t even congratulate him.

He refused to admit it bothered him.

He, Chaff and Finnick spent the next few days goading each other to the point the three of them were very invested when the next Saturday came. Archer announced that they would have to reproduce one of his most famous dishes that night: duck à l’orange with white asparagus as a side dish.

They were all given a recipe with detailed instructions. Haymitch read them twice and tried to be as meticulous as possible. Cashmere had snatched the first place the previous week and he was determined to come first that night. Just to make Chaff shut up.

He ended up in second place, behind Cashmere once more who clearly had hidden skills. She shrugged it off when he asked, simply saying that she was used to helping out her mother when she could. Archer _did_ say his duck was perfectly cooked when Chaff’s was too dry though, so it was at least something.

Ten, Five and Two kissed the competition goodbye that night.

The next morning, while he was having breakfast, Effie perched herself on the edge of the table, next to his plate, and watched him in silence for a few seconds.

“What?” he grumbled at long last.

“You _are_ taking this competition seriously.” she commented. “Color me surprised.”

“Chaff and I have a bet going on.” he muttered. “Don’t go thinking I like cooking or anything.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of thinking you have a hobby other than getting drunk.” she grinned.

He rolled his eyes.

On the third week, they had to cook a whole meal. Starters, dish and dessert. He managed the first two alright but he burned the buns he had settled on for dessert. He was lucky because Chaff’s choice for a dish turned out disastrous and he managed to qualify himself for the semi-final.

“Looks like someone owes me a bottle…” he taunted his best friend on their way back to the Center.

“Oh, shut up.” Chaff sulked. “Finnick should have been kicked out. You’ve seen his salmon? It was raw.”

Haymitch openly laughed at his friend’s bad faith.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when he got back to the penthouse because Effie hadn’t been overly invested in _Capitol Chefs_ so far, aside for handling his PR, but he was genuinely – and happily – surprised to find her waiting in front of the elevator in a red negligee.

“I believe congratulations are in order.” she purred.

He let himself be congratulated alright.

“You should know I changed my bets.” she told him afterwards, once she was sprawled on his chest and he was trying not to drop asleep before she had left his room. “I now have a nice amount on you.”

 

Archer had warned them at the end of the episode, as a teasing for the audience, that the semi-finals’ theme would be _desserts_. Haymitch spent most of the following week checking recipes – not that he let _anyone_ know that. Baking wasn’t his thing, it _really_ wasn’t and if he spent a few hours training every day in the penthouse’s kitchen and ended up covered with flour half the time… Well… Avoxes weren’t going to tell.

Still, it didn’t save him from being overwhelmed with the _strawberry charlotte_ request Archer made that Saturday night.

He did his best but he hated baking. Cooking was one thing, making food… But desserts… Desserts had always been a luxury in Twelve, something he had only ever partaked in in the city. He had a sweet tooth, that was undeniable, but it wasn’t something he had ever attempted for himself before that week.

At least, he thought, as he glanced at his competition, the others seemed equally at a loss. Finnick was staring at the recipe and rubbed the back of his neck, Cashmere was scowling and Cecelia looked like she had already given up.

His charlotte looked mismatched but it was good and, so, he was enraged when Archer decided at the end of the night that One and Four would go on to the finals. He kept his peace while the cameras were rolling but he sulked and refused to talk to anyone afterwards. Cashmere’s charlotte was barely edible and Finnick’s looked like it had collapsed on itself.

“It’s _fucking_ unfair.” he complained to Effie that night, slouched on the couch with his arms crossed like a petulant child. “Cecelia’s looked better than theirs too. We should have gone on. They just wanted Careers in the finals. All rigged.” He scoffed, not sure why he was even surprised. What else did he expect from the Capitol? “ _Fucking_ unfair.”

“I am sure it was.” Effie humored him, patting his shoulder. She sounded sympathetic but she was also clearly fighting a smile and it annoyed him to no end.

“You knew.” he accused. “That’s why you bet on the kid from the start.”

“I changed my bet to _you_.” she reminded him. “After you went beyond all expectations. _I_ was very impressed.” Her tone was genuine enough that he relaxed a little, his scowl turning into a sulk. “I am very sorry you are so disappointed.”

“I can cook better than _Finnick Odair_ or _Cashmere Richmond_ , you know.” he sneered. “Bloody kids. What do they even know?”

“Well…” she hummed, leaning a little against his side. “I do not _actually_ know but perhaps… Perhaps you could cook for me tomorrow? I must admit I am _most_ intrigued.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You want me to cook for you?”

The idea wasn’t settling right with him. First because it felt too much like a date or something and then because only Avoxes or hired staff cooked for her and he disliked the idea of being demoted to that.

“Why not?” she grinned, her fingers tapping their way down his chest. “Feed me some food and then I might let you feed me something else…”

She was off the couch and sauntering out of the room before he could really process that.

He thought about it long and hard, spent half the night debating with himself and obsessing over it so much he forgot to be angry about _Capitol Chefs_. The next morning, though, he chased the Avoxes out of the kitchen and brought out his best game.

He wasn’t sure what she had been expecting but she looked honestly stunned when she finally ate what he had prepared. It wasn’t the best she ever had because she was used to four stars restaurants but she promised it was the best she had ever tasted coming from someone who hadn’t gone to cooking school. She liked it so much she thoroughly thanked him afterwards.

He quickly discovered it was a bit of a kink to hers to have a man cook her dinner. It put her in a mood he was only too happy to have her in.

As a joke, he asked her if she preferred him cooking or chopping wood and she was so undecided she quickly determined he should try cooking shirtless.

All in all, when Finnick ended up winning the victors’ edition of _Capitol Chefs_ , Haymitch didn’t really mind because he had found new victories himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know!


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